


After School Days

by Ahmerst



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, rating will go up in future chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-27 19:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1720280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahmerst/pseuds/Ahmerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU wherein Aoba isn't sure exactly how he sees Koujaku, but it's certainly become as more than a friend. It helps that Koujaku seems to feel the same. Or it would, if he weren't such a hot, awkward mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Aoba reads over the whiteboard for the third time, he understands it no more than when he first read it.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to concentrate, but that he can’t.

It’s half-past two, and in twenty minutes the bell will ring and bring his final period to an end. The sun is shining perfectly, casting lazy afternoon rays across his seat, and he thinks this must be how a cat feels when it sleeps in a sunny spot.

When Aoba looks out the window, he sees the transfer student— the one from Germany— playing hookey and smoking behind the volleyball nets. Their eyes meet, and even from a hundred yards away, Aoba can see the look of disdain on his face.

That, and the way he points to his eyes and then to Aoba in a kind of I’m-on-to-you gesture, makes it entirely more impossible to concentrate.

At least until there’s the snap of papers hitting his desk and Aoba jolts so hard the pencil he doesn’t entirely recall tucking behind his ear falls from its perch with a clatter. He looks from the small stack of papers, to the hand holding them, to the person it’s attached to.

 

“Mr. Seragaki, as you seem so inclined to waste my time while class is in session, let me return the favor by wasting yours while class is out of session,” says Aoba’s literature teacher, voice smooth and controlled.

“Y-Yes, Mink,” Aoba stutters out, knowing from experience that any argument will only extend his punishment.

He eyes the pink slip left on his desk with his name written on it, notes the signature in the corner. It’s Mink, just Mink.

Aoba thinks it’s impossible that his literature teacher is only named Mink. Birth certificates don’t work that way. He also thinks that it probably goes against health regulations to keep a giant pink bird in the classroom, and then breaks another half dozen animal cruelty laws that it wears an eyepatch.

And that’s for starters.

Mostly, he thinks this class is somehow the best-worst one he has. He’s not sure why it is, either.

It probably helps that his childhood friend turned resident womanizer happens to sit two rows away from him.

Not that they talk much anymore, haven’t for a while. But his presence is something familiar in a room full of otherwise new faces. How Aoba managed to land himself in an advanced class is nothing short of a mystery, but overcrowding isn’t a reason that escapes him.

What does escape him is how Koujaku manages to snag himself a detention as well with five minutes left until the bell. There’s something about a crumpled up piece of paper involved, as Aoba becomes aware when it hits the side of his head with a shock through his nerves.

He touches lightly at his scalp as though he expects there to be damage, looks around for the culprit and sees Koujaku’s stupid, smiling face looking at him. The way Aoba’s heart jumps at the sight is from the fear of getting caught, or at least that’s what he tells himself as he leans down to pick up the ball of paper that’s now resting on the floor.

The fear becomes real when loafers appear in his field of vision, and his fingers scramble for the paper before Mink can get it.

He’s too slow.

“Twice in one period, Mr. Seragaki? If you’re so eager to stay after school, you could have let me know,” Mink says. “No need to pass notes about it.”

Aoba freezes, holds his breath as Mink uncrumples the note, straightens it out in his grip. He watches his eyes read over the paper. His expression is unchanging, a constant stoic set of his features, and he turns slowly when he’s done to face Koujaku.

There’s a silence in the class at that, no shuffle of anxious sneakers against tile, or scratching of pencil against paper. The clock ticks steadily on, the sole sound in the room as all attention turn toward Mink.

“I see you’re eager to join us,” he says.

And that’s it.

The bell drones low and the other students gather their things, stuffing heavy books and binders into backpacks. Chair legs screech across the floor as they stand. They weave their way around Mink as he returns to his desk, opens a drawer of confiscated items that contains everything from packs of gum to Allmates, and places the note inside.

“I want you both to read up to chapter three and complete the first eight exercises on your homework,” Mink says, back turned to them as he cleans the whiteboard of what’s written on it.

Aoba stifles a groan and flips his book open, knowing already he’ll be lucky to focus enough to get half that done. Not that he wouldn’t be heading home to start his work anyway, but the knowledge that he has Mink’s observant eyes trained on him is just another distraction he doesn’t want to deal with.

Ten pages and one exercise down, Aoba allows himself a glance around the room.

Mink sits at his desk, pink bird perched on his shoulder as he reviews paperwork. There’s a red pen in his hand and a barely there smile on his face as he marks the incorrect answers and reshuffles the sheets.

Koujaku is already looking at him, absently twirling a pencil between his fingers and not getting a lick or work done.

He probably has the dumbest face ever, Aoba is pretty sure. What with his smug little smile like he hasn’t got a care in the world, the way it turns up casual at the corners and shows a hint of teeth.

It’s a smile Aoba recognizes from when they were little, when Koujaku would find him under the dark, clear sky as he waited in the park for his grandmother. He’d take his hand then, chase away any tears Aoba had with that smile and a concerned squeeze, waiting with him until he had a home with someone to go back to.

And then he left, went back to the mainland. Aoba didn’t know why then, doesn’t know why now, just knows that Koujaku came back different in a hundred little ways he can never pinpoint, and without a mother.

He still smiles though, so Aoba smiles in turn, puts his pencil back to his paper and scribbles down answers he’s sure will meet red marks until Mink excuses the both of them with a grunt.

The first thing Aoba does when he makes it out of the classroom is unzip his duffel bag. Ren’s dark eyes peer up at him from within. His tongue, like the rest of him, is entirely stationary at it peeks from his muzzle.

“Woke yourself up from sleep mode, huh?” Aoba asks, reaching a hand into his bag to fondly pet Ren between the ears. “Coast is clear now, you can come out.”

“When you didn’t rouse me yourself at the final bell, my systems booted to see if you were in trouble,” Ren says, monotone as his head appears from the duffel bag. He gives a cursory sniff at the air, and Aoba can hear the swish of his tail wagging from within the bag.

“I guess you could say I was,” Aoba says, shaking his head and shrugging. “But at least I had company.”

“And here I thought you’d forgotten about me,” comes a voice from behind. It’s warm and charming and Aoba doesn’t so much as glance behind himself at the speaker.

“I never asked you to get in trouble too,” Aoba says as Koujaku reaches him, matching their steps. “What did that note even say?”

Koujaku shrugs, reaches out to let Ren sniff and lick his hand before petting him. “Who knows.”

He says it like one would a deep mystery. As though he were musing over the meaning of life, or why toast always lands butter-side down.

“Okay, but, you actually wrote it. So really you would know. You and Mink, and I’m not about to ask him.”

“Well then, I guess you won’t be finding out anytime soon.”

Aoba goes to shoot him a _look_ , turns his head, and doesn’t entirely understand what he reads in Koujaku’s features. The usual charm and confidence isn’t quite there, replaced instead by something Aoba recognizes from their younger years.

It’s the face Koujaku would make when Aoba asked a question he didn’t want to answer. Not from lack of knowledge, but from embarrassment. Like when Aoba took to tugging on his sleeve and asked how babies were made, or why people sometimes kissed with their tongues more than their lips.

Aoba sees that same expression all over again as Koujaku’s eyes flit away and up to the ceiling, tongue flicking out over his upper teeth. The corner of his lips tug up, and Aoba watches his tongue roll like he’s about to give an answer.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” is what comes out of his mouth instead. “For now, I have hair to cut.”

“I think you mean floors to sweep,” Aoba counters, because he’s seen the dinky little salon that Koujaku works at after school, and more importantly, seen Koujaku doing all the grunt work.

“Gotta start somewhere,” Koujaku says with a shrug. “Be seeing ya, kid.”

When Koujaku lengthens his stride and overtakes Aoba, his hand comes up.

Aoba’s seen this move a hundred times before, between family, and friends, and lovers. Another’s hand through hair, fingers carding, nail tips touching against scalp. It’s friendly, sweet, and a certain kind of familiar.

But mostly it’s like the sudden blare of too-loud music and too much sensation, and he wants it to stop.

Needs it to stop.

His hand is on Koujaku’s wrist before he’s fully registering what he’s doing, short nails digging into soft skin as his muscles tenses, fingers gripping. His entire body locks up, and there’s a moment where he almost, _almost_ braces himself using his hold on Koujaku because the touch is gone but what it brought it still coursing through his nerves.

 

Aoba’s breath comes out in a single distraught pant, teeth grinding as he reorients himself amongst the still-fresh sensations surging through him. His knuckles ache, turn white as time passes.

“Sorry,” Koujaku says, low and quiet, and it’s what brings Aoba’s eyes to his, makes them focus.

Aoba lets go of Koujaku then, shoves his own hands into his back pockets and tries not to look at the crescent marks he’s left. Ren noses him with concern, and Aoba shrugs it off with an irritated noise.

“So it’s still like that, huh?” Koujaku asks.

“Of course it’s still like that,” Aoba says. It comes out a faster and harsher than he means it to.

Koujaku looks at a loss for how to pick up the thread of the conversation, adjusts his sleeves instead as his lips twitch. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

Aoba knows he’s being haughty and reactionist, but Koujaku is familiar with this already. They’ve been over it, a shared bit of knowledge between the two of them since childhood. It’s not something that ever showed signs of changing.

“I figured it was some weird thing you’d grow out of after like, puberty,” Koujaku says.

“Well I didn’t.”

“Yeah, guess not.”

Koujaku’s hand goes to rub at the back of his neck as his gaze falls to the floor. There’s a basic emotion in his expression, written onto his skin in the furrow of his brow and the purse of his lips. It’s the look of guilt that Aoba’s seen on every dog caught in the act of doing something wrong.

“Look, just go to work,” Aoba says, because that face is eating away his anger, softening it into something sympathetic.

“Right, work,” Koujaku says. His smile returns, but it’s out of place and uneasy. “Catch you later.”

Aoba watches Koujaku’s back as he leaves, the air thick and awkward. Ever since Koujaku returned, there’s been something wrong between them, even though he’s not exactly sure what that “something” is.

He wonders, not for the first time, if Koujaku keeps this almost-friendship up because it’d be weirder not to. That twenty second conversations and passing glances are easier than unsettled silence and the joint effort of pretending not to know one another.

“Aoba, you’re thinking too hard,” comes Ren’s deep voice, and his nose presses against Aoba’s arm.

“Mm, yeah. Tell me about it,” Aoba says, pauses for a second before taking Ren out of his bag and tucking him under his arm. “Don’t actually, though.”

“If you insist,” Ren says, and he wiggles himself comfortable as the two of them set off for home, thoughts heavy and processors firing.

——- 

 

Aoba goes to the park after dark not because he wants to, but because he’s locked out of the house. He sits on the swing, too long legs planted in the tanbark and thoughts jumbled. Ren sits next to him in the childrens’ swing, placed there by Aoba an hour and a half ago to amuse himself.

He’d taken photos on his coil until that died, and then it wasn’t as funny anymore, but it was still pretty cute.

“Aoba,” Ren says, feet dangling and tail spilling over the cusp of his swing, “this is the second time in a single week.”

“I know, I know. But it’s totally Gram’s mahjong night, and I never actually paid attention to whose house she goes over to when she plays that.”

“It changes,” Ren informs him.

“Oh boy, wow; That helps me loads. You get two milk bones tonight.”

Aoba kicks at a piece of tanbark, wraps his fingers around the chains of the swing and squeezes. He’s not trying to be cross with Ren, but the cold night air and the hunger in his stomach has burned away his patience.

It doesn’t help that this is all his own damn fault. If he’d actually set the alarm on his coil, if he hadn’t needed Ren to pouncing on him repeatedly to wake him up, he would’ve remembered to grab his keys before he ran out the door.

“Maybe I could try jimmying the window open like I did last time,” Aoba muses.

“You had to pay to have it replaced after you shattered the pane.”

“I bet that wouldn’t happen again—”

“This was two days ago,” Ren interrupts, like Aoba needs reminding.

“Fine, fine. I’ll stay out here and freeze to death instead,” Aoba teases.

There’s the creaking of chains as Ren wiggles in his swing, hoists himself clumsily over the edge and drops to his feet. He closes the small distance between them, paws light on the ground as he comes to face Aoba. He’s surprisingly spry as he springs up, Aoba’s hands automatically going to catch him, resting him on his lap soon after.

Ren looks up at him with dark, interested eyes.

“There’s a cafe three-hundred yards down this street,” Ren informs him. “I’m sure they would have heating.”

Aoba offers Ren a wry smile as he runs his hands through his fur, brushing away any dirt and dust he’s collected throughout the day.

“Spent all my allowance replacing that dumb window,” Aoba says. “Guess it’ll just be survival of the fluffiest out here tonight.”

Ren’s paws settle on Aoba’s chest at that, his small weight pressing into him. He’s warm, core whirring and body settling close. He noses at bare skin, the air from his nose coming out in hot puffs.

Neither of them speak after that. They don’t need to. Even with the cold biting at his ears and seeping into his skin, it’s nice to sit like this, the night air quiet around them and Ren warm against his body.

Ren’s always been the calm, sensible one; the areas that Aoba lacks in. And sure he may get a little dry and over-informative, but they’re qualities that have done nothing but further endear him to Aoba.

Ren stirs first, and as Aoba opens his mouth to ask if something’s wrong, he hears it.

There’s the idling of an engine nearby, and as Aoba scans the street, he sees the source. There’s a motorcycle at the curb, the rider still on it. Even in the dim light of the nearest lamp, Aoba can recognize the figure. It makes his back go straight and his hold on Ren tighten.

“Oi, Mr. Seragaki,” Mink calls from the motorcycle. He makes no move to get off, and Aoba makes no move to get closer.

He waits instead for another line, some kind of remark that he should be studying or finishing homework. Mink seems to be waiting in turn for a response. His Allmate drops down from overhead to neatly perch on his shoulder.

Aoba can see Mink’s eyes moving in neat rows, like he’s reading Aoba over in the same way he pores over his books in what little free time teachers have.

“Do you need a ride home?” he finally asks, voice low and gruff as he reaches back to pat at the empty spot behind him.

There’s a helmet strapped down to it, though he doesn’t wear one himself.

Aoba has to take a moment then, process what he’s been offered. He definitely doesn’t take rides from strangers, and this teacher is as strange as they get. Not to mention he’s kind of sure a teacher could get in trouble for this thing. What with rules when it comes to fraternizing with students.

“Ah, nah. I’m fine, I live right here anyway,” Aoba says, gesturing vaguely with one hand at the area. “I mean— I mean like my house is basically here, I don’t live in the park or anything.”

Mink makes a sound like a laugh, though Aoba’s sure Mink could never laugh.

He does, however, think that Mink is almost sort of cool right now. What, with the whole eyepatch-having Allmate and relatively sweet ride. He nearly seems normal, if not bordering on trustworthy.

This must be how those people who raise wild animals in their houses feel, convincing themselves something is sweet and tame before it’s jumping them from behind the bathroom door one day. At which point it’s a whole lot too late to remember that, oh shit, this isn’t something to mess with, and that it basically has four hundred pounds and a dozen more teeth than you do.

Ren squirms in Aoba’s arm once, a kind of earth-to-Aoba movement, and Aoba shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He’s gotta get better at brushing them under the rug, or one of these days he’ll end up blabbing them without meaning to.

“Anyway, I’m good, but thanks,” Aoba says.

“If you say so.”

Mink rolls his shoulders after that, his Allmate taking flight again. The engine goes from a lazy purr to a growing roar as he knocks the kickstand back up, flexing his grip on the handlebars.

“Keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble,” Mink says.

The words come out of his mouth not as a warning, but as a kind of afterthought. Like he’s only just recalled what his role is, and how he shouldn’t be edging out of it. He punctuates his sentence with a rev of his engine, and then he’s gone. Nothing more than a rumble and tail lights roaring down the road.

When Aoba pulls himself from thoughts and turns to return to his swing, he finds his muscles are stiff and locked with cold. Each step is something jerking and halting, like the unoiled movements of an old machine.

The cold is settling into his bones. The tips of his ears ache as the chill nips them, and the prospect of breaking and entering is becoming entirely more inviting. He even half debates seeing if he can suss out Virus or Trip, two people that seem forever eager to spoil him.

But then there’s that little alarm in the back of his head that goes off when he thinks of them. It’s the same thing that prickles under his skin when he thinks about Mink. That knowledge that a wild animal can act all too tame until it doesn’t feel up to it.

So instead he goes back to the swing with Ren at his heels, manages to get his hands around the chains and kicks off. He almost makes it two downswings without any interrupting thoughts, but then there’s a pressure on his back, small but firm and pushing him forward.

Aoba dismounts fast and neat enough to make a gymnast proud, whips around with his knees already bending and fingers curling into fists. It’s immediate, instinctive, and as it turns out, wholly unnecessary when he sees who it is.

“Hey.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aoba gasps and whips around at the sound of another person, sighs when he finds who it is. Koujaku stands behind the swing where Aoba’s been sitting, one eyebrow arched in the dark, a hand held up in half-surrender. The other is holding a bag, the printed name on the side indistinguishable. His laughter is a quiet, amused rumble as he moves closer, and Aoba eyes the coat he’s bundled in with a certain jealousy.

“So you’ll let strangers offer you a ride, but the second your pal shows up you’re ready to fight?” he asks.

Aoba realizes his hands are still clenched, fingers aching, and lets them unfurl.

“Well sneaking up on someone isn’t exactly the best way to get a friendly hello from them,” Aoba says, rubbing the palms of his hands together to warm them. “Also, you kind of just admitted to spying on me like a creep, what with watching me and Mink.”

“Hey now, I can’t help looking out for someone like you. It’s habit at this point, y’know? Plus I figured after how much I mooch off your grandma, it’d only be proper to give back a little,” Koujaku says, jostling the bag in his hand.

Food. There must be food in that bag he’s carrying. Aoba’s stomach gives a hungry twist at the thought of it, and it doesn’t take long for his irritation to turn to interest. He kicks casually at the tanbark and tries to push his hands into his pockets, eyes the bag more carefully.

Then he remembers he’s locked out, and that there’s no way in hell he’ll let Koujaku in on that. He’d probably make some dumb remark about how Aoba’s as childish as ever and question how he’s allowed to so much as walk home alone.

“Give it here,” Aoba says, offering one hand. “I’ll give it to Grams when I get back.”

He congratulates himself inwardly on the smoothness of his voice, how easy the lie is to come from his mouth.

“And how do I know you won’t eat it all before you get home?” Koujaku asks.

Instead of the bag finding its way to Aoba, it’s Koujaku’s free hand instead. His grip is solid, and his fingers curl familiar around Aoba’s, squeeze with a fondness that makes his heart hiccup. They must be warm too, but Aoba’s skin is too deadened from the winter air to tell.

It’s been a long time since they’ve done this— years, Aoba’s sure, but it feels as right as it always has.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Koujaku says. He inclines his head in the direction of Aoba’s house, pulls at him gently.

Aoba locks his knees and doesn’t budge.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to get home,” Koujaku starts.

There’s a petering quality to his voice as he looks to Aoba, eyes at first focused on his, then steadily moving downward. His expression changes, becomes something akin to a vulture eyeing how much flesh a carcass has left on its bones.

The hardness in his eyes says there’s not enough.

“Now, Aoba,” Koujaku begins, voice caught somewhere between reprimanding and concerned.

His thumb smooths over Aoba’s knuckles once before he lets go, placing his bag on the ground before his fingers start unbuttoning his own jacket.

“Mm, what is it?”

Aoba knows exactly what it is.

“Is your grandmother out late tonight?” Koujaku asks. It’s not really a question. He already seems to know the answer.

Aoba shrugs, watches Koujaku slide his jacket off in a single smooth motion.

“Probably off playing card games or baking things until the sun comes up, or making mystery casseroles. You know, general old lady things.”

“And your idea of a fun Friday night is sitting alone in the park, freezing your ass off because you didn’t bring a coat to school?”

“Something like that.”

Koujaku chuckles, shakes his head like he doesn’t know what to do with Aoba, and then circles around him. Aoba obediently lets Koujaku pull the jacket onto him one arm at a time before coming back to his front.

He starts to button it from the bottom, fingers half as fast as when he undid them before. He takes his time, back slightly bent only to straighten as he moves upwards, smooths out just-made wrinkles with the flat of his palm.

“You got locked out, huh?” Koujaku asks as he finishes the last button.

He’s close enough that his hot breath flickers against Aoba’s skin, and he can smell the smoke on him, heady and sweet. When Aoba buries his nose in the collar of the jacket, tries to hide the pout of his lips and the blush of his cheeks, the scent grows stronger.

“Mmhmm,” is the noise that doesn’t quite make it past his lips. He stands there with his hands at his sides, eyes everywhere but on Koujaku. This must be how it feels to be a mannequin, dressed and posed and not knowing what else to do.

“You’re lucky to have such a charming, handsome, and responsible babysitter,” Koujaku says, chest puffed with pride. He reaches into the front pocket of the coat, pulls out a set of keys that jangles easily around his finger as he shows them off.

“Since when do you get a spare?” Aoba scoffs.

“Since I proved I’m entirely better at keeping track of them, unlike some people.”

Any attitude Aoba had slowly ebbs as he puts the situation together in his mind, nose still hidden in Koujaku’s coat. Koujaku, who not only has food, but the key to get inside. Grandma won’t have to know a thing, and he’ll be getting a free meal out of it.

Nodding to himself at the sweet deal laid out before him, Aoba offers up his hand again for Koujaku to take. It covers his quickly before Koujaku’s dipping for a moment, picking his bag up and then setting off.

Aoba finds himself matching his stride with Koujaku’s as they walk, or at least, he tries to. Koujaku’s older and taller, legs longer. It makes Aoba feel like a kid all over again, and he finds he doesn’t mind all that much as he hurries his step to keep up.

The walk home seems entirely too short for Aoba’s tastes, and the jacket is only just starting to warm him by the time they make it to the front porch. Beside them stops Ren, Beni riding atop his head.

Koujaku’s hand releases his as he opens the door, and he stands aside with a dramatic gesture to usher the rest of them in.

Aoba slings his bag to the floor as he toes off his shoes, hand finding the thermostat before it goes for anything else.

“Well aren’t you the studious one, tossing your books everywhere like that,” Koujaku chides, his voice far from serious.

“I’ll study when I’m dead. And also not in Mink’s class,” Aoba says, shying back when Koujaku goes to take his coat back. He’s hurrying up the steps before Koujaku can stop him.

Aoba means to change into something more comfortable, means to get Koujaku’s coat off as soon as possible. But then he’s sitting on his bed, peeling his socks off and curling his toes until they crack, head tipping back with a sigh as it sinks in that he’s finally home.

And exhausted.

His body is slumping sideways before he can stop, hitting the mattress with a dull thud as he pulls his feet up and curls on his side. His eyes close and he focuses on the in and out of his breath, on how cozy Koujaku’s coat is, comfortable enough to sleep in.

One minute, he decides. He can rest for a minute. Maybe even two. Or five.

“Yo, anyone home in here?” comes Koujaku’s voice as Aoba’s breath deepens, evens out.

Aoba has every intention of responding, of telling Koujaku off for barging in without knocking first, but his eyelids are too heavy to open, the words caught in his throat.

An exhale barely escapes him as the mattress dips, and his eyelashes flutter weakly. His fingers curl at nothing, and he almost manages to lick his lips when the scent of cooked food reaches his nose.

His thoughts are slow and languid as he lays there, feels the weight of the covers he’d kicked aside as he scrambled out of bed that morning being pulled over him. They come up nearly to his chest now, hands tucking them gently around his sides, arms left free.

It’s the sensation at his wrist that starts to draw him back into wakefulness, the fingers that encircle it and draw it upwards. They move along his veins like they’re tracing a map, skim over skin before they settle on his coil.

The low tone of its activation goes off as it’s turned on, and Aoba faintly recognizes the sound of menus being gone through, messages typed and sent, the chime of incoming responses.

His body gives a tiny jerk as its startled into consciousness by the realization that he’s not the one making these sounds happen. His eyes open as he snaps his wrist back to his chest, sees the charging cable he doesn’t recall plugging in trailing behind as he blinks the blur from his eyes.

Koujaku sits on the edge of his bed, one leg drawn up and hands still poised in the air where they’d been fiddling with the coil. The look on his face says he saw it coming, but still couldn’t help the surprise that came. Like watching bread pop up from the toaster.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he says, settling his hands in his lap.

“Wasn’t sleeping,” Aoba says, his voice a thick, tired drawl.

“Aoba, you’ve been asleep for forty-seven minutes,” says Ren from the end of the bed, tone sage and flat.

”Oh, well,” Aoba begins, rubs a fist against his eyes. “Okay Mr. Watch Dog, but how about explaining why Koujaku was using my coil.” He levels Koujaku with a look then. “You better not be changing all my contact names.”

“Hardly,” Koujaku says, though it comes out less of a word and more of a laugh. “Mizuki started blowing up my coil, said you were supposed to text him about studying and then bailed without warning. I tried calling up to you to ask about it, but you never came down. Figured that even someone like you couldn’t take so long changing.”

Koujaku flicks the uppermost button on the jacket, fingertip barely brushing beneath Aoba’s chin.

Aoba processes the explanation through a still sleep-fogged brain, finally nods in the end and accepts it as truth.

“Did you tell him I’m fine?”

“Well, I was trying to before I was so rudely interrupted.”

“Oh,” Aoba says. “Go on then, finish whatever it is you were doing.”

A part of him twitches when Koujaku takes his wrist again. It’s not a flinch, but something deeper. It’s beneath his skin, in his veins. He’s sure Koujaku feels it as he brings Aoba’s coil screen back up.

“There you go, mother hen Mizuki all taken care of for now, not that you’re off the hook or anything.”

He doesn’t let go of Aoba’s wrist.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Aoba asks, eyes half-closed already.

“I would be a pretty rotten babysitter if I sent you to bed without supper. So, you know, sit your ass up unless you want to be spoon fed like an invalid.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll get up,” Aoba says, pulling his arm back and pushing himself up with it. The covers slide down to pool around his waist, Koujaku’s jacket still wrapped around him. Even with the rising temperature of the room he makes no effort to take it off.

He can’t really explain why.

Handed to him isn’t a bowl of food, but a glass of water and a small prescription bottle. It’s a procedure he’s familiar with, done a thousand times before, but never at Koujaku’s insistence.

“You’ve been making that face you do when your head hurts ever since I found you at the park,” Koujaku explains.

“I do not make a face,” is Aoba’s rebuttal.

“But your head does hurt, huh?”

Aoba sets the glass of water on his night table instead of responding, unscrewing the cap with a deft motion. Of course his head hurts, it never truly stops. It’s more something that rests in the back of his mind for the most part, a white noise (that Aoba endures and) does his best not to acknowledge.

Aoba decides against answering Koujaku, instead tapping a few pills into his palm before he tosses them into his mouth. He throws his head back as he swallows them dry, enjoys the noise of disdain Koujaku makes at the sight.

“I brought you water for a reason, y’know.”

“And here I thought you were calling Mizuki a mother hen.”

“It’s different when I do it,” Koujaku says, words clipped and voice tight.

“Is it?”

“It is,” Koujaku insists, pushes the bowl of warmed over food into Aoba’s empty hands. “He cares about you because he’s your bro, and I care about because I’m, I don’t know—”

Koujaku makes a series of vague gestures as though he can pluck the words he’s looking for from the air.

“Alright, how about a game of twenty questions instead?” Aoba offers. “See if that can’t narrow it down a little.”

The way Koujaku nods doesn’t so much seem to signify assent as much as resignation. Aoba spears his fork through a hunk of meat as he watches the movement. He chews it thoughtfully as he mulls over what questions to go through, tilts his head before he speaks up.

“So you care about me, right?”

One nod.

“But not like a bro?”

Two nods.

“And not like family?”

A shake of the head.

“Alright, let me get this straight,” Aoba starts, pausing to take another bite of food. “You look after me, and you’re into that— which I mean, is cool. I’m not about to say no to free food and clothes—”

“I never said you could have that jacket,” Koujaku starts in.

Aoba waves his fork at Koujaku like they’ll discuss the finer details later.

“Anyway, like I was saying. You enjoy taking care of me, but not like a bro or a friend or whatever, and not like family.”

“Yes.”

Aoba hits the side of the bowl with his fork, gathers a few stray grains of rice. He shifts his legs restlessly beneath the covers, and suddenly everything is warmer than it was five minutes ago.

“Koujaku, what exactly did that note you tried to pass me in class say?”

“I don’t think this is how you play twenty-one questions,” Koujaku says.

“Well it’s been ages since I’ve played so I’m making up my own rules, okay?”

“Nope, not okay,” Koujaku says. “Now finish your dinner.”

Aoba’s nose wrinkles as he sticks out his tongue, but he listens soon enough, eating until there’s nothing left except the sound of his fork scraping against the bowl. He polishes off the water Koujaku’s brought him as the icing on the cake, and makes sure to throw in a sweet little look to calm the waters.

“Are you happy now, mom?” Aoba intones lightly, savoring the way Koujaku rolls his eyes at the line.

“Good enough, I guess,” Koujaku replies, taking the bowl and setting it aside.

He fiddles with his shirt after that, fingers unsure and eyes flitting about for a place to look. Aoba settles his hands over his own sated stomach, shifting his weight over to make room. The drowsiness that had overcome him returns in full force with his needs met, eyes growing heavy as the pounding in his head ebbs.

Koujaku helps himself up beside Aoba, fits himself in the small space that’s been made as his back settles against the headboard. There’s a silence that’s comfortable, and Aoba finds himself letting his shoulder rest against Koujaku’s, gaze straying to gauge his reaction.

Koujaku stares straight ahead, cheeks slightly flushed. His hand comes up to run through the heaviness of his bangs, and Aoba cranes his neck mere centimeters to see what it is that hides beneath them.

That’s when Koujaku notices, turns his head and does that dumb charming smile that always gets Aoba right in the heart.

“Now, now, no peeking, Aoba. Gotta save some mystery for the wedding night, you know?”

“Yeah, sure, that’s you. So dark and mysterious,” Aoba says with a roll of his eyes. “Basically, like dirt.”

Koujaku’s chuckle is a low rumble as he shakes his head. When his weight shifts on the bed, Aoba’s muscles tense with the urge to keep him from getting up, wetting his lips as the breath to ask him to stay fills his lungs.

It’s been such a long, long time since they’ve had this kind of peaceful moment together, and the fond nostalgia it’s brought to the forefront of Aoba’s mind has him wanting to hold onto it all the more.

So when it turns out that Koujaku is doing nothing more than working his way under the covers, settles himself so that their shoulders are aligned and resting together again, Aoba doesn’t put up a word of protest about how rude it is to invite oneself beneath another’s sheets.

Instead he lets his body melt into the warmth and comfort provided to it, slowly easing sideways as he cheek comes to rest on Koujaku’s shoulder. His thoughts become muddled and hazy as wonders about simple things, like how much homework he has left, or if it’s going to rain tomorrow.

He also wonders about more complicated things, like how Koujaku and him went from passing pseudo-friends after his return from the mainland, to chilling in his bed like this. At least this nixes the question of whether or not Koujaku was pulling a polite act on him to keep up appearances.

It completely doesn’t nix the question as to what happened while he was away, or why he hides his face because of it.

It’s the question that Aoba’s mind holds onto as his eyes shut, breath slow and deep as he drifts off again.

At least until there’s a shock of something far from pain running through his hair and down his spine, his entire body giving a small jerk forward.

“Shit— shit, I’m sorry. I thought you were asleep,” Koujaku says, his hand quickly coming to rest between Aoba’s shoulder blades as he hunches.

“A little,” Aoba mutters, rubbing his hands over his eyes. He thinks Koujaku might be rubbing his back, but the sensation is faint.

“A little what? A little asleep?”

“What do you think?” Aoba says sarcastically and turning his head to look at Koujaku. “And what exactly are you apologizing for?”

The hang-dog look being thrown his way does nothing to ease his just-woken grumpiness, and he rolls his shoulders to shrug Koujaku’s touch off while he waits for an answer.

In place of an explanation, Koujaku tilts his head. It almost reminds him of the way Ren takes to looking at him after something he doesn’t understand happens. The confusion is gone though, and Aoba realizes Koujaku’s reenacting what woke him.

“You were resting your cheek on my head?”

“Well, basically yeah. I was getting a little tired myself, but I figured I’d wake you up if I tried to lie down. So I, y’know—” he repeats the head-tilting gesture again. “Kind of tried to nod off. I didn’t mean to hurt you again.”

“It didn’t hurt,” Aoba says quickly, because maybe that hang-dog look is getting to him more than he thought it was. “I was surprised, is all. Still, it would kind of be nice if you laid off my hair.”

The hang-dog look reaches critical levels of effectiveness, and Aoba’s speaking again to make it stop before he realizes there are words coming out of his mouth.

“The roots are really the worst, but the ends aren’t that bad if you’re careful. Look, if you’re so super keen on touching it, maybe we can come to a compromise or something, okay?”

“A compromise?” Koujaku asks, and he looks hopeful at that.

“Yeah, like, you can touch the ends of my hair if…” Aoba trails, scratching his chin as he thinks of a fair trade. “If you let me see your face.”

“Deal,” Koujaku agrees, and a victorious little breath puffs from his nose.

Aoba finds himself pushing the covers aside as he faces himself toward Koujaku, knees tucked beneath him. Koujaku does nothing more than look at Aoba, back still resting against the headboard and blankets up to his waist.

“So who does what first?” Koujaku asks.

“Don’t say it like that, you make it sound really weird,” Aoba says. “Just touch the ends and get your kicks in or whatever.”

Aoba takes Koujaku’s hand in his and brings it up the the tips of his hair. He tells himself once, twice, three times that everything is okay as Koujaku’s fingertips brush against a few strands. And it is okay, honestly and truly. The sensation is dull and far away, as though felt underwater.

Aoba looks away as Koujaku continues to touch his hair, lighting winding it around a finger before letting it slip away only to repeat the action again. His touch gradually moves upwards, the sensation increasing.

“Is it bad?” Koujaku asks, fingers nearing Aoba’s collarbone.

“Mm, not bad. Weird,” Aoba answers.

“Weird like what?”

Aoba shrugs, still struggles to find a place to look that isn’t at Koujaku. He’s pretty sure that locking gazes with someone as they practically fondle your hair puts you in the beyond-friends zone.

The thought of it makes moths flutter in his stomach.

“Weird like… I don’t know. Something under my skin, little prickles. I guess maybe if you had sugar under your skin it would feel similar?”

Koujaku grimaces at the mental thought.

“No wonder you don’t like it.”

“It’s not always bad, only if you’re manhandling it or something. I said sugar after all, not sand, so it’s kind of sweet in a way,” Aoba says, his words faltering at the end as his explanation falls flat.

As Koujaku’s fingers continue to creep up toward the nape of Aoba’s neck and the sensation quickly closes in on too much, Aoba shakes him off. He rolls his shoulders to loosen the tension in them before shooting Koujaku a serious look.

“My turn,” he announces.

“Be my guest,” Koujaku invites. “Look as much as you want.”

Aoba furrows his brow, thinks this is all too easy, and reaches out to brush away the dark bangs that have hidden so much of Koujaku’s face since he returned from the mainland. Koujaku leans deftly to one side, bats Aoba’s hand away with a reprimanding tut.

“Look with your eyes, not your hands,” he chides.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Aoba says. “We settled on a fair deal.”

“You asked to see my face. That’s it, that’s what you’re doing right now. You never asked to touch.”

“Did I make a deal with a genie?” Aoba says, reaching out again only to have his touch deflected. “I wasn’t aware I had to specify every little nitty gritty detail.”

“Well guess what, you do,” Koujaku says.

Aoba knows better than to let himself be riled, but knowing has never stopped him to start with. His pawing escalates from ineffectual to combative as he surges forward. He’s not entirely sure what he’s trying to do, but his body moves of its own accord, gets him closer before he’s thinking.

His leg hikes itself over Koujaku carelessly, knees sinking into the mattress as his weight settles on Koujaku’s hips. It’s a position that hardly registers in his mind as he grapples with Koujaku, wrists caught in his hold as he struggles.

“Easy there, tiger,” Koujaku says, and the fierce set of his jaw gives Aoba pause.

Aoba tries to find the words for what he wants, what they’ve agreed to, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a frustrated garble of half-demands.

“I said take it easy,” Koujaku repeats. His grip is firm and unshakable, and when Aoba tries pulling away instead of pushing forward, he finds no give.

“I let you touch my hair,” Aoba says. “You said I could see your face, we agreed on that. Now you’re being a pedantic asshole who wants to play word games.”

“Is it that hard to accept that maybe my face looks the same under all this hair? That maybe you’re the one making this difficult instead of me?”

Aoba feels his muscles go slack at Koujaku’s audacity. This act as though he keeps his face half-hidden for kicks, like there isn’t a pinkened scar scratched into the skin of his cheek that flits over his nose and beyond. That he doesn’t have the same story etched across his fingers and knuckles and God knows where else.

“You think I’m going to buy that?” Aoba asks. “That you can book it for a few years and come back without an explanation, only to figure I should completely believe that nothing happened while you were away?”

“Well,” Koujaku says, and he looks away with a humored sigh, “it’d be nice if you bought it. Not to mention I’ve heard you got up to some less than stellar shenanigans while I was gone.”

“This isn’t about me.” Aoba gives his wrists a solid yank, almost frees them before Koujaku’s pulling back, bringing Aoba so close he has to plant his palms on Koujaku’s chest to keep them from colliding. “It’s about your stupid shady ass.”

“You’re getting a little haughty tonight, aren’t you? Did all that dinner make you hyper or what?” Koujaku asks, and there’s a forced cheerfulness in his voice as he tries to steer the conversation.

Aoba’s gaze falls to his hands, palms still braced against Koujaku’s chest and fingers splayed, wonders if that skull is so thick it’d take a sledgehammer to get through it. That, or a new approach.

Aoba counts the seconds as they pass, continues to stare at his own hands as five, ten, fifteen tick by. The hold on his wrists tentatively loosens, and when he gently pulls one hand away, he finds it easily freed.

“Ever since I was little you’ve taken care of me. I never even asked you to, no one did. Now I’m older and I— I get it. I get what it’s like to take care of people, and I get that no one takes care of you.”

Koujaku’s chuckle is a soft, unhappy thing, the expression on his face so distant that he doesn’t react to Aoba’s hand nearing it until it’s too late. Until those fingers are slipping beneath his bangs, not brushing them away, but resting against the skin.

He flinches.

“Does it hurt?”

“Nah, it’s not like that,” Koujaku says.

He raises his hand to cover Aoba’s, holds it in place to prevent any fast moves.

“Well, anyway,” Aoba says, and he lets honey creep into his tone, uses the voice that gets him his way, “I think maybe for once you need to get that you don’t have to be the one forever looking after me. That maybe sometimes you should let me look after you, alright?”

“How would a little kiddo like you look after a big guy like me?” Koujaku asks, and Aoba can hear the fight draining from him as his skin steadily flushes a pretty red.

“You have to give me time to actually figure that out,” Aoba says. “I mean, I’m no chef or sugar daddy, but I can always microwave shit or do your laundry or something.”

“So you’ll be like my housewife?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?” Koujaku asks, and the warmth at the edge of his words is back.

“I’ll be like, a diet housewife or something, alright? Not the full monty.”

“Works for me,” Koujaku says.

And then he’s leaning into Aoba’s touch, eyes closed and skin warm. The look on his face is one that Aoba’s hasn’t recently recognized, and it clicks into place that it’s a certain serenity, true peacefulness.

Aoba takes in the sight of it in the quiet of his room, admires this side of Koujaku he’s never seen before, from the way his brows unknit and his forehead smooths, to how his lips part as he exhales past them.

Aoba lets his thumb rest against them, feels the breath against them before he’s tracing the Cupid’s bow thoughtlessly. It’s nice. This is nice. There’s no awkward or uncomfortable air, only closeness and shared body heat, Ren’s processors a constant, soothing noise in the background.

“So,” Koujaku says, lips moving against Aoba’s thumb for a moment before he’s turning his head, easing Aoba’s hand from his face. Aoba catches a glimpse of something that’s not a scar, something that’s inky and black and makes his fingers curl with the desire to touch.

“So?”

“So,” Koujaku starts up again, “you and your, you know, you’re sitting. I mean, the way you’re sitting.”

Aoba pauses, stares blankly for a moment before self awareness kicks in, gives his body a startled jolt as he realizes he’s still sitting smack dab on Koujaku. He wriggles weakly as his muscles tense, ready to move himself off at the first word that he’s too heavy for Koujaku.

“Okay yeah, that,” Koujaku says, his words hitching funny. “It’s not a bad spot, not bad at all, so stop giving me such a dumb look.”

“Then what is it?”

“You’re on my lap. Like, pretty well-seated and everything there. Not to mention you were, you know—” Koujaku gestures at his face, makes a petting sort of motion. “And basically I’m trying to ask if you’re flirting. Like, with me.”


	3. Chapter 3

The words come out in such a rushed way that they don’t immediately register. Aoba pauses, lips thinning as he nearly asks Koujaku to repeat himself before he’s belatedly piecing it together. Aoba can’t configure an answer so much as spit the same question right back.

“Well, are _you_ flirting?”

“I am completely flirting,” Koujaku says, stone-faced. “I try passing notes to you, have you wear my jacket, I get you food, and I hold your hand and walk you home. What part of that doesn’t come off as flirting?”

“You basically did all that when I was a kid too, though.”

“True, but then you grew up and got super hot.”

 

“Oh,” Aoba says, because he’s not sure how else to respond. “Then I guess yes? Yes. I’m flirting with you, because you are flirting with me. But also because I want to.”

Koujaku side eyes Aoba like he’s speaking an entirely different language.

“You sound like an idiot.”

“And you look like one, so shut your dumb mouth.”

“Birds of a feather, I guess,” Koujaku says, and then his hands are moving down Aoba’s sides, resting on his hips and petting lightly.

Aoba stays settling on Koujaku, not entirely sure of what comes next. There’s no thread of conversation to follow now, only the silence of the room and Koujaku’s hands on him. Aoba sniffs once as he weighs his options, words refusing to leave his throat as he tries to make small talk.

And then Koujaku is kissing him, and that, he realizes, is exactly what he wants to be happening now. He breathes in the light scent of smoke still on Koujaku’s breath, leans into the kiss and holds it for a moment before he’s pulling back, tensing up before going in for another brief peck.

Third time’s the charm, and that’s when he feels Koujaku’s tongue flick out to trace along his lips, warm and slick with saliva. His chest hitches and his fingers curl, the heat that’s been simmering in his stomach coming to a boil and spilling over. His body gives an uneasy jerk and pulls back of its own accord, leaves him wide-eyed and staring at Koujaku.

“Hey, c’mon now, you know you don’t have to clam up around me,” Koujaku says, hands sliding beneath Aoba’s coat, shirt, coming to rest against bare skin

Aoba’s mind fries a little bit, makes him forget how to speak as those hands are stroking his sides, hiking his clothing up. His lips find their way to Aoba’s again, tongue again tracing along them, pressing more insistently.

The hot anxiety that’s been whiting out his senses thins, and Aoba finds himself pushing at Koujaku, reeling away until he’s staring at the ceiling instead, sprawled out on his back. Koujaku’s face appears above him a second later, toggling between amusement and concern.

“That ticklish, are you?” he asks, and his fingers play with one of the buttons on the coat.

“Just— hands off for a second, okay Mr. Casanova?” Aoba chokes out, smacking Koujaku’s hand away and gathering himself.

Koujaku’s expression softens then, turns into something edged with worry as the corners of his mouth turn down.

“Is this not what you wanted? I mean, I thought we were both on the same page about this sort of thing—”

“It’s not that I don’t want this sort of stuff,” Aoba cuts in quickly. “I just, you know, I’m not like you.”

“Not like me?” Koujaku asks, and the worry has reached his voice.

“Well you’re older, you kind of have a way better idea of what you’re doing,” Aoba says curtly.

Koujaku glances away for a moment as he takes in the words, mulls them over as Aoba makes no move to sit up, content to sprawl on his back as he waits for the blood that’s rushed everywhere but his head to cool down.

“Are you telling me that was your first kiss?” Koujaku says, the undercurrent of his voice scandalized and excited at once.

“I’m not _that_ inexperienced, okay? I just— like I’ve played spin the bottle a few times, and done all the dumb slow dancing at school dances, but not a whole lot else.”

The ceiling is gone then, blocked out entirely by Koujaku as he leans in closer, bright and inquisitive.

“You’ll let me teach you how to kiss, won’t you?”

“What, right now?”

“Basically.”

And Koujaku’s weight is on him after that, settling on his hips as his hands sink down into the mattress.

“Promise you won’t be a total jackass about it first,” Aoba says.

“How would I be a jackass about this?”

“By saying I’m a terrible kisser or something dumb like that.”

“Deal,” Koujaku says quickly, like he thought the terms of agreement would be entirely more complicated.

There are no more words after that, only Koujaku’s lips on Aoba’s again, this time softer, gentler, like he’s savoring something sweet. Aoba lets his eyes shut, tries to focus and let himself go all at once, skin tingling and heart beating quick.

He imitates Koujaku as best he can, parts his lips and makes not-quite-noises when he’s unsure of what to do. When he feels Koujaku’s tongue this time, he doesn’t turn his head away, doesn’t try to make him stop. He lets him in instead, breath hitching jaggedly as he feels Koujaku’s tongue glancing along his teeth before delving deeper.

Koujaku tastes of the faint smell that’s always on him, something sweet and hazy and hard to pin. Aoba’s arms find their way around Koujaku’s neck as they continue to kiss, pulling him closer until their chests are flush together, pressed closer by the rise and fall of their breathing.

“So I think,” Koujaku pants out between kisses, “we should go steady.”

“Okay,” Aoba says with a nod, and it snaps a thin thread of saliva between their lips when he does.

He’s not entirely sure what it means. He supposes it has to mean more kissing, and he’s more than up for that. Probably hand holding in public will be involved, but that’s already been a thing between them for years. Maybe he’ll even get to wear Koujaku’s letterman jacket.

“You’re so cute it almost makes me feel skeevy,” Koujaku says, his lips moving against Aoba’s jaw as he dots kisses along it. “but mostly it’s making me hot.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” Aoba asks, tries not to squirm too excitedly under Koujaku’s touch as his thoughts go foggy and the pooling pleasure in his belly grows.

“Think about it, Aoba. Here I am, practically pinning down the hottest underclassman on his own bed and getting to be the first one who really kisses him.”

“Yeah, how about more of the kissing stuff and less of the bragging act?” Aoba asks, shooting him a look before Koujaku’s giving him just that.

Aoba’s not sure of exactly how long they kiss, only that’s it’s not enough, feels like it’ll never be enough, and that his body is moving on its own. His fingers tangle easily in Koujaku’s hair, his hips arching up to meet Koujaku’s.

And that’s a boner. Totally a boner. Not even his own at that. He’s had enough to know what his own feels like, and yeah he’s completely sporting one at the second, but that is most definitely a non-Aoba-owned boner pressed against him, and then Koujaku’s tongue and teeth find their way to the indent behind his ear, and wow they should have started this going steady thing ages ago.

Aoba wriggles under Koujaku, shifts and kicks under him until his legs are free before promptly locking his ankles together behind Koujaku’s back. It’s a thoughtless action, something done out of instinct and need. Koujaku grinds into him, the friction through their pants driving Aoba wild, making him half-faint as he tosses his head to the side.

That’s when he sees him. Ren, staring with his usual interest, eyes big and dark and taking everything in. His tongue lolls out in it’s near-constant casual way, and his small frame moves only as it exhales.

“Ren, are you— Ren, no. No, bad dog,” Aoba gasps out, pushing immediately at Koujaku as he tries to scramble away.

Koujaku raises his head, looks to where Aoba’s attention is so suddenly centered.

“You have to be kidding me, Ren. Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” he asks, and for how casual his tone is, Aoba can feel the tension locking his muscles.

“It is my duty as an Allmate to monitor Aoba’s conditions.”

“More like your duty to be a cockblock,” Aoba grumbles, the command for Ren to enter sleep mode already on the tip of his tongue.

“It is also my duty to monitor the activities on of the house, such as unexpected happenings and the comings and goings of household members.”

For the flat monotone of his deeply robotic voice, there’s something in it. A hint, an unsaid message that has Aoba pausing to decipher the true meaning of Ren’s words.

He hears it then, the click of a lock downstairs. The opening of the front door.

“Shit,” Aoba hisses. “Oh shit, be quiet.”

Koujaku doesn’t need telling twice. Aoba’s up from the bed in a flash, a tangle of awkward limbs before he’s straightening out, dashing for his light switch and flicking it off. He pauses there, staring at what little light filters under his door. Soon enough he hears the creak of stairs being mounted, watches the light outside flicker as someone pauses, as though trying to tell if anyone in the room is awake or not.

He lets out a breath he’s held too long when Tae decides to continue down the hall without opening his door.

When he turns back, it’s to see Koujaku still in his bed looking stricken as a deer waiting to be mowed down. Aoba doesn’t need to raise a finger to his lips to keep him quiet. A look is enough. A look that says if he so much as makes a peep, Aoba will be shotputting him out the window.

It’s with painstakingly careful footfalls that Aoba returns to his bed, his mind abuzz with too much at once. The fear of being caught, and the fact that he still has a hard on and a new boyfriend in his bed, are neck and neck. He has every intention of lying down until he can organize his thoughts, calm himself to the point of reason, but it doesn’t really happen.

He manages the first part, lets his body fall slack on the bed as a sigh leaves his lips, but the calm never comes. Instead, he finds himself half-collapsed on Koujaku, head resting on his chest, a leg hiked over Koujaku’s thigh. He moves his hips to adjust his weight, swallows around a gasp as his erection presses against Koujaku.

Neither of them move after that.

“Koujaku,” Aoba eventually breathes, the realization that their current situation has no easy resolution dawning on him.

“Yes, Aoba?” Koujaku answers.

“I don’t know,” Aoba says, which isn’t what he means to say at all. What he wants to do is order Koujaku to do something about their predicament.

The minutes tick and Aoba resigns himself to burying his face in Koujaku’s chest, hands fisted in his shirt. With an ear to his chest, Aoba listens in to the quick tempo Koujaku’s heartbeat sets for itself.

“Make it better,” Aoba says, voice muffled against Koujaku’s shirt.

“Easier said than done,” Koujaku whispers back. He chokes in the middle of it, words caught when Aoba moves once against him.

“At this point, I don’t think anything could be easier,” Aoba argues, moving again to prove his point. “Just… touch me. You of all people should have half an idea of what you’re doing.”

“I never said I didn’t know what to do. I simply don’t think now is an opportune time.”

A part of Aoba agrees, but that part is overwhelmingly small in the face of his hormones.

”C’mon, Koujaku. You can pull off something quick, can’t you?”

Koujaku sighs, and it sounds like a strain to his throat.

“I don’t want something quick with you, Aoba. I don’t want to just feel you up and get you off, and have that be it,” he says. There’s a softness to his words, a caring touch to his tone.

“So basically,” Aoba starts, unaffected by the spiel, “you’re gonna give me blue balls because it wouldn’t be romantic to finish me off right now?”

Koujaku makes a noise between a laugh and a choke, and Aoba smacks his chest to keep him quiet.

“I suppose that’s not exactly wrong,” Koujaku says, his hand smoothing down Aoba’s back before it comes to rest at the dip of his spine.

He pets the spot thoughtlessly, a repetitive motion that doesn’t change. Aoba finds himself aware of it. Too aware. He can count the seconds it takes, which fingers linger the longest. Their touch leaves a warmth in their wake, an excitement of nerves under his skin. They falter for the briefest of seconds when Aoba moves, shifts to better press against Koujaku’s thigh, hips angled to leave not the slightest space between their bodies.

“Fine then, suit yourself,” Aoba says, half breathless as he forces a hand between himself and Koujaku, sliding it down his front until he’s brushing over the snap on his jeans.

It’s with a hasty movement that he undoes the button, fingertips fumbling as they grasp the zipper and tug it down with a hushed metallic whisper. Aoba’s voice leaves him in a relieved pant as he slips his hand under the elastic of his boxers, fingers curling as they wrap about hardened, needy flesh.

His eyes shut tight as his hips give an instinctive jerk, a shaky, quick contraction of muscle before it’s releasing, driving him against his own palm for relief. The pace he sets is instinctive and awkward, hindered by the closeness of their confines. He feels Koujaku move restlessly beneath him, the hand on the small of his back resting harder until it’s not resting at all, instead pushing him on.

Aoba’s got just enough sense to return his face to Koujaku’s chest when the first moan escapes his lips. It’s low and wanton, drags guttural at the end as he ruts harder. The beat of his heart is a thunderously loud sound in his ears, the quickness of it something he sets the pace of his hand to. His back arches down hard with every jerk of his hips, and he finds a surge of electric sensation shooting through him when Koujaku’s other hand comes up to cup the back of his head, fingers loosely twining in his hair and keeping his head down.

“Jeez, babe. Really got a mouth on yourself, huh?” Koujaku asks. His voice is low and mostly collected, the heat of his words brushing against the shell of Aoba’s ear as murmurs them.

Aoba tries to respond, works his tongue over his lips, pulls breath into his lungs to speak and readies his words. All that leaves him is another moan, weak and smothered against cloth as he loses himself. Precum, slick and thin, smooths out under his thumb as he brushes it over the head of his dick. He twitches against his own palm, his thoughts increasingly muddled with fever-like heat as his entire body strings itself tight in the face of oncoming climax.

It’s with a quiet cry that he comes, body spasming and nerves lit with excitement. He rocks harder against Koujaku for a split second before his body stills, spilling white over his hand as the fire in his stomach burns at its hottest. It’s as the fire starts to ebb into a pleasant warmth that settles over him that the embarrassment floods quickly into his consciousness.

“Oh. Oh shit, sorry,” he stammers out quickly, mortified at the realization that he’s christened their new relationship by getting cum on his boyfriend’s pant leg.

Koujaku chuckles, and it’s something that reverberates through Aoba, rumbles in afershocks through his body.

“It’s fine,” Koujaku says, voice is low and calm.

It’s with careful, caring movements that Aoba finds their positions changing. Finds that Koujaku is gently easing him onto his back, a knee on either side of his hips before Koujaku’s reaching for the bedside table and snagging a few tissues. His smile is small smile as he dabs at Aoba’s hand, makes his fingers twitch and flex as the white is wiped from them.

His muscles seize and his hips jerk as Koujaku cleans his softened dick, skin oversensitive and reactive to the slightest brush of tissue. It starts a noise in Aoba’s throat that he fights to swallow before it can escape his lips. His eyes shut tight against the stimulation, his free hand coming up to cover the embarrassed blush staining his cheeks.

Even with the lightest touch, it’s still too much as Koujaku tucks Aoba back into his jeans. He arches and bucks once, body confused and overloaded. Koujaku hushes and murmurs words he can’t quite make out.

When Aoba opens his eyes again, it’s to see Koujaku cleaning the damp spots from his own pant leg. Aoba means to look away, boy scout honor gives it his best shot, but his gaze manages only to flicker a whopping six inches away and settle on the hard outline of Koujaku’s erection

With orgasm taking what bravado he had born of lust, a flare of nervousness is quick to dampen the dull warmth he’s been basking in. He averts his eyes, but the image is still there in his mind’s eye. Right. He got off. It’d only be natural that Koujaku get off too. Sure, he’d been all gentlemanly and refused any hanky panky earlier, but minds changed. Aoba certainly hadn’t started the day thinking he’d end up in bed with his childhood friend, humping away at his leg with all the gusto of a mutt.

“Stop making that face,” Koujaku says softly, reeling Aoba back to the present.

“What face?”

“The one that says your brain is going a mile a minute.”

“Well it is going a mile a minute,” Aoba says, feels his lips draw into a pout.

“But it doesn’t need to be,” Koujaku says.

He reaches forward with one hand, lips curved in a warm smile as he thumbs the pout away. He lingers at the corner of Aoba’s lips, breath leaving him in a wistful sort of noise before he’s shifting, the mattress dipping as he stands.

“You can’t just leave,” Aoba hisses under his breath as Koujaku stretches. “Granny’ll find us out in all of three seconds if you do.”

“Never said I was booking it, babe. Only finishing up some loose ends.”

Aoba opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. Means to ask what the hell Koujaku is getting at by that, and God damn it now is not the time to be cryptic, but then Koujaku’s already slinking away into the bathroom and shutting the door. It takes the click of the lock for Aoba to realize exactly what Koujaku’s planning to ‘finish up’ in there.

His throat goes a little dry, and he spends half a minute with his face buried in his pillow before he’s ready to confront reality again.

It’s with with measured movements that he leaves bed, stepping quietly to his dresser. He hurriedly pulls out pajamas, mismatched and rag tag. He strips down quickly, tossing his clothes in his hamper as he undresses. His pants miss their mark, and one leg falls over Ren.

The white noise whir of his sleep mode halts, and his dark eyes flicker open as he stirs. Aoba rubs his neck sheepishly as their gazes meet.

“So, about earlier,” Aoba begins, the words thick and heavy on his tongue as he forces them out.

“There is nothing that needs to be addressed from earlier,” Ren says, voice set to its usual low monotone. “Nothing has occured.”

“Wait, but—” Aoba starts, needs a second to let Ren’s words sink in. “Oh, right. Right, yeah, you’re totally right. As always. Nothing happened, nothing at all.”

Brownie points to Ren for being a total fucking broski.

“Correct,” Ren affirms, righting himself to stand on his short legs and looking expectantly at Aoba.

With a sigh of relief Aoba scoops him up, tucks him under one arm as his other hand goes to peel back the covers of his bed. He crawls beneath the covers and takes Ren with him, wriggles himself comfortable until the sheets are up to his nose, Ren a lump beneath them that’s curled on his chest.

By the time Koujaku reemerges from the bathroom, cheeks flushed and breath a little short, Aoba’s nerves have started to calm in the face of late-night exhaustion. What little energy he has left, he uses to shuffle his body closer to the wall, peering over the covers at Koujaku when he’s made enough space for him.

“Well aren’t you polite,” Koujaku says, lifting the covers and easing himself in alongside Aoba.

It’s more cramped than Aoba expects, but there’s no complaining from his side. He relaxes his tensed muscles to let their shoulders touch, flexes his fingers when Koujaku’s find them under the covers. Their fingers thread and link seamlessly, and Aoba swallows around the small knot in his throat at that, smiles a nervous smile.

He hears Koujaku’s lips part more than he seems them in the darkness of the room as he turns his head, watches the way the corners of Koujaku’s eyes crease soft and pretty before he speaks.

“You okay?”

Koujaku’s said those two words more times that Aoba can recall. It’s a question that surfaces in his earliest memories as a child, continues through the years into everyday life. The tone is forever the same, never superficial and light, a muscle memory twitch of lips and vocal cords, but genuine and warm with care.

It sends Aoba’s pulse to his ears as he repeats the words within his own head.

Is he okay?

Okay is not a word Aoba can apply to himself. In fact, there seems to be no word at all in his internal lexicon that fully encompasses the workings of his mind and body as one right now. He figures, if anything, the Germans might have a word for it. Mostly because they have a word for everything.

It’s all Aoba can do to take in the moment, from the way the the sheets rise and fall from their breathing, to the way his heart aches with a certain comfort he’s never held there before. He tucks each sensation away in his mind like a postcard kept safe in a box, easily accessed on quiet days for thoughtful revisitation.

 

“I’m more than okay,” Aoba says, and while they aren’t the words he wants, they’re words he means.


End file.
